Forewarned. This is the longest story I have ever done. It was 3 pages longer and I kept cutting it down and down, changing the entire story. After my struggle, I would love to get your opinion. It will be appreciated. Thanks!
Paree, Paree. I’m so excited I can hardly think straight. Jimmy and I are going to Paris. Oh, dear. We aren’t really going together. We’re just going at the same time on the same plane. This will be my first trip out of the USA and it is going to be Paris, Paris in the spring. Jimmy has been there more times than he can remember, once in Mont Marte for a year. All I’ve ever seen of Paris has been on the travel channel or in fashion mags.
It’s May 1, a lovely, sunny, warm day. A black and white checked cab pulls up in front of my apartment building and honks. I wave and call the driver to come to the door to carry my luggage. He gets out of his cab and I don’t know what to do. He is about 5'1" tall. I am 5'7". If he weighs more than 110, I’ll give him an extra dollar tip for every pound over he is. I struggle carrying my one suitcase down three steps and then wheel it to the cab. The driver easily lifts my equally heavy other bag, gets it down the steps and carries it all the way to the trunk. ‘Shorty’ takes it right up to the check-in counter when we get to US Air. My ego burns like the fire Mrs. O’Leary’s cow started in Chicago. I am wished a safe and pleasant journey, thanked for my generous tip and he is gone.
The porter directs me to overseas boarding where I show my passport and plane ticket. Jimmy had given me lots of do’s and don’t’s to go thru Security. ‘Don’t wear a jacket or sweater or comfortable walking shoes with ties. You’ll have to put them in bins and re-dress when you get thru the line.’ He was so right. Slow pokes hold up the line while they do all the things I have avoided.
Gate 58G is a long walk from Security. I stop for a breather, a cup of coffee and an almond brioche. I see Jimmy in line at the boarding gate. Like the newbie I am, I hurry to him, give him a little hug and get in line behind him. ‘Celia, this isn’t your line. You’re over there.’ He points to a longer line than his. My face shows puzzlement. Jimmy explains. ‘This is for First Class passengers only. We go on before your section. I’ll see you after we take off and reach 35000 ft.’ ‘35000?’ ‘Yep, that’s about it. Usually we can stand up, maybe go to the bathroom. You’ll hear all the announcements.’ His line begins to move forward. I have to wriggle backwards past the First Class passengers to be able to board as a second class person. I’m steamed. Why hadn’t Jimmy suggested I go First Class? Maybe I would have done it too. As a stewardess stops to help a lady with a small child settle in across from my seat, I ask her if there are any empty seats in First Class. ‘Yes, Ma am. There are still two empty ones. Would you like to move?’ ‘I sure would,’ I tell her. ‘That will be ‘$2010. May I have your credit card, please,’ she asks. ’Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stay here.’ She clicks the safety belt on the little girl and leaves me upset, unhappy, uncomfortable. My slightly dampened ego hangs over me for a long time.
The man beside me speaks no English. He hums and reads what looks like Arabic. The woman in the middle seat wears what seems to be a Muslim head dress that totally covers her hair and most of her face. We make no attempt to be friendly.
I mostly stare out the window, see the clouds that look like mountains. Blue sky peeps thru and the mountains are nestled behind wide lakes. I read a bit of Epiphany by Kitely. That is enough to close my eyes for almost an hour. The woman in the middle between me and the Muslim touches my arm but says nothing. Jimmy is standing in the aisle. ‘Come on, get your things. I have a seat for you in First Class.’ No argument from me. He gets my overhead baggage and leads the way. ‘The stewardess is chilling a bottle of Sauvignon for us. Come on.’
I sit in a soft lounge chair with my own small table. Hors d'oeuvres are brought with the wine. Time moves more quickly then I expected it. We fill out landing papers, feel and hear the plane’s wheel’s grind to a slow stop. There is applause from the rear section, silence in First Class. ‘Jimmy, I’m here, I’m really in France.’ ‘Let’s get a move on, Celia. I have a busy day.’ Baggage pick-up is straight ahead. I get lucky when my black luggage with big red flowers comes out right away. Jimmy signals for a porter who handles my things. He carries his own handsome black brief case and computer. The porter takes his suitcase. A Mercedes is waiting for him when we leave the airport. As we drive to the hotel Jimmy points out things of interest, the many gendarmes, fountains, the Bibliotheque de France, the Seine. ‘We’ll go to the Eiffel tower together, Ceil, maybe after dinner tonight.’ He pulls up to the hotel and helps me out, says ‘I’ll call you later,’ and drives away, leaving me standing on the pavement, feeling like left over dirt.
My room is lovely, the hand held shower hard to control, the white down comforter a taste of heaven. I am exhausted, fall asleep in a second. The phone wakes me at seven, early afternoon at home. Almost with a chill in his voice and no explanation, Jimmy cancels our dinner for tonight. ‘Your hotel dining room is comfortable, the food exquisite. Ask the concierge to get you on a night tour of Paris in English. Charge it. It’s fun and you’ll get a chance to meet other travelers.’ I want to tell him I know enough Americans, but that would be nasty. I let it ride, take the tour, learn a lot and am enchanted.
Bright and early Jimmy calls to meet him for breakfast at the corner café. He sweetens it describing the sidewalk tables, watching the gendarmes on horseback smiling, waving. ‘It is possible we will be stoned with flowers.’ From his briefcase he hands me a map and suggests I walk a few blocks and spend a long time ambling along the Champs Elysees’. ‘Keep your eyes open for two things, space to fit your rear on a metal bench and pickpockets. They are sneaky and fast. I warn you, don’t put your purse over your shoulder. The straps can be cut and you won’t even feel it. Hold your bag with both arms in front of you.’ I order scrambled eggs that are lighter than air and café avec lait. The café, even with milk, is so strong, my lips curl. I cannot drink it. My brioche is good, I order another, wrap it in a paper napkin and put it in my purse. ‘I’ll call you about dinner later,’ Jimmy says, grabs a cab and disappears in a honking cacophony of beep beeps.
With my map in hand, I head for the Champs Elysees. First I think I might need more cash and try my little French with the next well dressed man who walks towards me. ‘Monsieur, s’il vous plait, ou est le francophone de naissance?’ In clear, warm English he tells me an ATM machine is at the corner on the other side of the street.’ ‘How did you know I am American?’ I ask. ‘You have to be kidding, Miss. You stuttered and pronounced everything wrong. May I walk with you to the bank. I was going there myself.’ ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ He laughs a charming laugh, moves away from the ATM as I enter my password. Out come Euros. ‘A bientot,’ he says and goes where he was going before helping me.
I can see the Arc de Triomphe ahead and walk towards it. Holding securely to my purse, I amble down the Champs, just watching people watch me. The young women are gorgeous, their chic, their clothes, their long thin legs on shoes that make them five inches taller than they are, amaze me. There are beggars, business men, shoppers, just like New York yet different. An empty spot on a bench is elusive until I spot an elderly lady gathering her basket of bread and a shopping bag of vegetables. A melon falls out of the bag and I hurry to pick it up for her. ‘Merci, merci.’ she says and offers me her seat. I say to her, ‘Merci, merci, Madam.’ She looks at me and says, ‘You’re welcome.’ We smile.
It is a slow, tiring walk back to Le Grande Prix L’Hotel and a short nap before dinner with Jimmy. The telephone light is blinking when I get to my room. Jimmy has left a message and is sorry again but he has unexpected business to take care of. I ask the concierge for a good restaurant that perhaps specializes in fish that is within walking
distance. ‘Le Poisson de Mar rolls off his tongue. He calls them for me, explains that Madame will want a pleasant table for one, not behind a post. 8:30 s’il vous plait..’ He hands me the card for the fish restaurant, goes outside to direct me three blocks straight down the Rue Charlemagne where I will see the name in large blue neon lights.
Of course, I am uncomfortable being alone but what alternative do I have? The carte is in French, English and German. The place looks clean, busy. Service comes to me at once but does not hurry me. I order a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, am allowed time to sip it before the huge carte is handed to me. My self consciousness must be showing but I try to relax and enjoy my destiny. Before my entree arrives, a note from another table is handed to me. It is in French. I ask for the maitre’ de and he comes over, reads my invitation and suggests I accept. A middle aged couple is starting dinner with their three teen children and will be delighted to have me as their guest. ‘Go, go, Madam’, the maitre d’ tells me. My waiter takes me over to the family. Everyone scrunches a little closer to each other as the waiter sets up a place for me. French is spoken until the tallest, probably oldest, son speaks out. The children are all studying languages in school and are anxious to use their English. They ask questions, tell me about French history. I tell them a bit of American lore. Suddenly I think of Jimmy and am glad he jilted me.
Monsieur Batiste insists on driving me back to Le Hotel Grande Prix. We exchange names, addresses, promise to write to each other and I go to my room. No message is blinking. No note is on the bureau. Jimmy never gave me a contact number for him. I am worried, frightened yet, still slightly flushed from the lovely, tasty dinner I had with strangers.
A cherry bon bon on a paper doily is on my pillow. It fits into my mouth without biting into the creamy inside. Another two or three would be nice but instead, I get ready for bed. I write a few postal cards to send back home and feel the pull of my down comforter. Sleep comes quickly as does morning. No word from Jimmy and I am lost. What should I do all day? A young concierge suggests a place for breakfast that is near by and a trip down the Seine for the entire afternoon. The boat will dock at one and a tour guide will take the passengers to Notre Dame, to see the school, the church, the hospital. That seems like a good idea and he books it for me.
I am worried about Jimmy and have to learn to count on myself and the concierge. I buy the New York Times from a kiosk, a roll of mints and have a decent breakfast at a decent price. My demitasse is demi- small, thick and bitter. There isn’t any room in the cup for lait. Bottled water won’t be great with crepes Alphonse but that is what I order. Fresh blueberries and sweet cream comes with it. The smell of the blueberry farm goes into my nostrils.
I sit quietly, letting time pass and open the New York Times. The headlines are as rotten, as frightening, as they are when I read them at home in New York. Where is the crossword puzzle? I turn a few pages, and stop dead. On page three there is a picture that looks familiar. It isn’t 100% clear so I hold it in the sunshine and stare at it. It is, it is Jimmy! The story under it is short. ‘Jim Conners, a known drug dealer, has been taken into custody and is being held without bail at the Penitentiare on Rue de Matin. The court is waiting for extradition papers from the United States.’
So much for Jimmy and my glorious trip to Paree. I breathe deeply, am smarter now than I was when I left NY, know that there is help if I need it. The concierges will guide me, set up tours. If I want, I can even hire a private driver to take me sight seeing, maybe out into the country. There are thousands of people who speak English. My papers here are in order. This is a wonderful world and I am going to enjoy it. I unfold Jimmy’s map and head for the pier for my Seine River journey.
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